


Rebuilding What Once Was

by vince_noir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vince_noir/pseuds/vince_noir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John's wife Mary dies in childbirth, taking their child with her, John finds himself alone again. To try and fill the void, he begins volunteer work at the soup kitchen Mary had often helped out at. It's a cold, winter night when he finds another ghost from his past haunting the soup kitchen. Post Reichenbach. TW Drug abuse and minor character death</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

John Watson was serving soup to a long line of homeless people, smiling at each one, chatting a bit with the ones he recognised. He had began working at the soup kitchen after his wife died in childbirth. She was incredibly passionate about the homeless, and had dedicated much of her free time to helping the soup kitchen in any way she could. John had sometimes wondered if any of the people she worked with had been a part of his old flatmate's homeless network. Sherlock Holmes had been an incredible man, and to this day, John felt honoured that he had been included in Sherlock's work with the Scotland Yard. When Sherlock died, public opinion was against him, but as details were released about Jim Moriarty's role in his fall from grace and suicide, the public once again switched sides. 

John tried to pull his thoughts away from Sherlock and Mary as he worked. The last thing he needed was to dwell on how alone he felt when he was in the company he was. At least he had a warm home to go tonight, and his not-a-housekeeper-but-secretly-his-housekeeper Mrs Hudson had probably cooked him a warm meal. He tried to be grateful for what he had, as he handed another bowl of soup to a young woman with bruises on her face. 

John nearly dropped the next bowl as he handed it to the man in front of him. He had dark, matted curls, listless eyes, and high cheekbones that made the scrawny man look like an alien. He recognised the face at once, although it was a lot more gaunt and dirty than he'd ever seen it. "Sherlock?" John whispered, visibly shaken. The man in front of him made no effort to respond as he took his soup and walked to a table to eat it. John's eyes didn't leave the figure for the rest of the night. When the man left, John made an excuse saying he had to leave early, and apologised profusely to the woman in charge that night, but claimed it was a personal emergency and he had to leave. He knew she didn't believe him, and was only letting him go because she knew Mary well and had liked her. That was good enough for John.

He pulled on his coat and dashed out the door into the rain. He saw the figure about a block away, and began to run after him. The limp he usually walked with disappearing gradually the closer he got to the man he felt had to be Sherlock. He had to make sure. When he reached the man, he grabbed him by the shoulder. "Sherlock!"

The man turned to face him, and he whispered back, "John." Sherlock wasn't the man John remembered though. Gone was the restlessness that had defined his best friend, in it's place was a broken, and shallow skeleton of Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest detective.

"Christ, what happened to you?" John asked, looking Sherlock over with concern. He made mental notes of Sherlock's symptoms and found himself angry instead of the excitement that had coursed through him moments before. "You were dead. You were dead, and you came back to life to be this?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I came back for you, but you were already gone."

John shook his head. "I didn't go anywhere. Come home with me. I'll have to get you cleaned up."

Sherlock wasn't going to argue. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a shower and clean clothes. He couldn't even remember the last time he had been sober like this. His breath caught. What if John had found him like this, but high? Would John be so forgiving? Sherlock didn't want to think too hard about it, but his gut feeling was yes. John would help him. John always saved him, even when the trouble he was in as his own fault. 

John walked with Sherlock to 221B Baker St, and was almost amused at Sherlock's reaction. "I moved back in after Mary died. Mrs Hudson needed a tenant, and I guess I couldn't resist." Sherlock just nodded. When they reached the flat, John told him that he could shower and gave him pyjamas to wear after. "They'll probably be too short, but they're clean." John shrugged. He was trying to be patient, and he wanted Sherlock to be as much Sherlock as he remembered him before he laid into him for what had happened three years ago. To start a fight with him now felt akin to beating a newborn kitten.

When Sherlock emerged from the shower, he didn't look much better, but at least he smelled like a human being again. John had been right though, the pyjama pants were almost comically too short for Sherlock. John considered himself to be in good shape for his age, but his pyjamas still looked like giant sacks on Sherlock's skeletal frame. "Well, I see that didn't do you much good," John frowned. "What the hell happened to you?"

Sherlock tried to remember where it had began, exactly. The cocaine had made a lot of the past few years a blur. He remembered faking his death, so he started there. He knew John knew why he had done it: if he didn't jump, Moriarty had given orders for Lestrade, John, and Mrs Hudson to be shot. John had read all about Moriarty's elaborate scheme to destroy Sherlock's reputation and both of them together. So Sherlock told John about how he chased down Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, he talked about how he unravelled the crime syndicate Moriarty had built. Sherlock was still so tired, but John was beginning to see the energy in Sherlock's eyes returning. 

"So why didn't you come back after all that? Why did you end up like... like this?"

"I did come back, John."

"You said. You said I was gone. I didn't go anywhere."

"You had moved on. You had a wife, and she was pregnant, and you were a family. How was I supposed to resurface and drag you away from that? That's what you've always wanted, isn't it? How was I supposed to jump into that life and start dragging you around the city at ungodly hours and ruin your life? I know I haven't always been the most thoughtful when it comes to intruding in your relationships, but to know you were so... You were happy. I didn't want to take that away."

"So you became homeless and strung out?"

"I didn't plan it that way. I couldn't reappear without you finding out, and that meant there were no cases. My mind rots without work. Cocaine helped with the boredom in my teens, so I thought it would help again. I lost control." The confession was shockingly human. Sherlock Holmes never admitted his mistakes so candidly; it caught John off guard, and he didn't know how to respond for a while. "I didn't mean to drag you back into my life like this, but John, I need you."

John couldn't deny that was true. "Okay. But you have to promise me something."

"What's that?"

"You'll brush your teeth and actually take my medical advice without complaint."

Sherlock quirked a smile. "I can do that."


	2. Chapter Two

Sherlock woke up, his entire being burning with withdrawal. His heart was racing, and his chest felt tight. He tried to sit up, but nausea hit him and sent him back down into the bed. He was in a bed, he realised, not on a street corner or in an alley way. He was warm and clean. Well, cleaner. He was sweating so much the pillowcase was soaked through. The night before hit him with stunning clarity, and he tried to call for John. He closed his eyes tight and tried to focus on the sound of his breathing, but even that was ragged and shallow. How had he allowed himself to lose control so badly?

It seemed like a century before John came in, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to talk to him at first for shame. Why had he agreed to come back here? Why had he dragged John into this mess he had made? Even in his current state, Sherlock knew the answer was obvious. He'd always go where John directed him to, and John would always let himself be dragged into the messes Sherlock made. He felt John run a cool cloth across his forehead, and Sherlock almost moaned in relief. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here."

Sherlock managed to turn his head towards the soothing voice, and opened his bleary eyes. As his eyes focused on John's face, he regretted making John help him through this all over again. The face he was looking at was a contortion somehow mixing horror and concern. "Some bedside manner you have," Sherlock croaked out. John's face relaxed a bit, almost into a smile.

"This is normal. You're going to feel like this for a couple of weeks. It seems like you're experiencing mostly physical symptoms. With you it's hard to tell though. Emotional symptoms are things like variable energy, mood swings, and social isolation. Basically you on any normal day." John ran his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "If you start having hallucinations, you have to tell me, okay?" Sherlock nodded. John tried giving him water, but Sherlock refused.

"I'll throw that up all over your bed."

John frowned. "However, it's strange you're having physical symptoms when usually cocaine is mostly an emotional withdrawal." Sherlock muttered something. "Sorry, I didn't catch that," he said.

"I said, it's probably not the cocaine then."

"Sherlock..."

"I told you I started with cocaine and then I lost control." Sherlock reached for the water. His throat burned and he decided the risk of being sick didn't outweigh the relief of having this conversation without a throat that was drier than the Sahara. Plus, if he got sick, John would have to drop the subject.

"What does 'lost control' mean to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want to see John's reaction while he spoke. "Initially, it was just morphine."

"And after?"

"Heroin."

"Christ, Sherlock!" John's hand froze in Sherlock's hair. When Sherlock opened his eyes again, John's face had changed again. This was anger and panic. This wasn't John acting as a doctor, but as a man helpless to control what was happening.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking your pulse again. You're at serious risk of a stroke or a heart attack or a seizure or a-" 

"Checking my pulse won't prevent any of those things."

"No, but it'll make me feel better. Christ. You should have told me. I wouldn't have left you alone through the night. You could have-"

"But I didn't." Sherlock's eyes met John's, determination against fear. "I'll be okay."

If John believed that in the slightest, he definitely lost hope when Sherlock puked up the water as promised.

Mostly John let Sherlock sleep, and he sat beside the bed reading and keeping an eye on him for a sign of anything life threatening. Sherlock would tremble and let out soft cries often, but for the most part, he just slept. He woke up a few times, and John tried to entice him into eating some food, but was reminded quickly of how hard it was to get Sherlock to eat anything at the best of times. John wondered if he could leave Sherlock alone long enough to get an intravenous for him. He decided that was a bad idea. Maybe he could get someone from the hospital to bring him one. Molly Hooper would be willing, but she would be taking a huge risk trying to sneak out with one when she worked with the dead people in the morgue, and John wasn't certain he wanted Molly to know Sherlock was alive just yet.

Due to a lack of better ideas (and excuses for not telling Molly when it could mean saving Sherlock), John was opening the door to one terrified looking Molly Hooper about an hour later. "Oh my gosh, I can't believe you talked me into stealing this from the hospital. What do you need it for?" she whispered with her eyes wide. She had actually brought the entire stand and everything set up and ready to go. Very subtle. John just hoped she didn't rip it out of one of the patients at the hospital and run to the flat.

"A friend," John said. He knew he had to let her in on the secret, so he led her to the bedroom, and heard her gasp when she saw Sherlock.

"This is what he's been doing all this time?" Molly's indignant question rang out before she could think better of it. Her hand flew over her mouth, and she stared at John. "I-I mean, oh, he's alive! Kind of! Oh!" She was unconvincing, to say the least.

"You knew he was alive?" John blurted out as the pieces fell into place in his mind. "Of course you did. You did the autopsy and filed the report. You kept this a secret from me all this time?"

"He made me promise; I had to help him!" Molly's shrill protestation woke Sherlock and he looked between the two, dazed.

John sighed. "I know. I guess I should just be impressed you kept the secret so well. Thank you, Molly." Sherlock began to ask what was going on, but John shushed him, and told him they were just going to hook him up to an IV until he could eat. "Molly will bring you more fluids as you need them. Won't you, Molly?"

"Oh, uh, yes. Yes." Molly's face flushed. She glared at John when Sherlock closed his eyes again. "You arse, I'm going to get fired for this."

"You'll be fired for filing a fake report anyway. Help me," John pleaded. "I'm not losing him again."

She sighed, recognising the look in his eyes. "Okay."

Sure enough, Sherlock was mostly bed ridden for the first few days. After that, he began to get up for the bare basics like showering, and he was slowly starting to eat and hold it down. A week after that, he was on the couch for the most of the time, but the symptoms had subsided to mostly a headache and occasional bouts of nausea. Another week after that, Sherlock entered post-acute withdrawal, and he almost wished he could go back to the first few days instead. He couldn't sleep, his moods were uncontrollable, and he was always tired. He wished for cocaine to wake himself up. He wished for morphine to put himself to sleep. He went as far as begging John to have Molly bring him just a tiny little dose of morphine. _Just enough to take the edge off_ , he had begged. John had refused and told Sherlock he was going cold turkey. Sherlock had gotten angry and thrown a mug of hot coffee across the room. Immediately after, he felt like crying. He felt like he was trapped to a mental roller coaster, and he wanted off.

"John. I can't do this," Sherlock tried again a few days later. "Please. Anything. I'll do anything. Anything to feel better."

"Then you'll suffer through this. C'mon Sherlock, you're almost through this. Feel proud." Instead, Sherlock just felt incredibly alone.


End file.
